


An Old Life

by SarieVenea



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Nogitsune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:58:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarieVenea/pseuds/SarieVenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you pick up the threads of an old life...when so much has changed. When the hurt has taken hold. </p>
<p>After the nogitsune releases its hold, Stiles cannot simply go back to what was before. Time may not mend these hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Old Life

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this immediately after the finale, and I don't know why I waited to post it. Foolishness on my part. The quote below is one of my favorites from The Lord of the Rings, it resonates with me personally so very much. I think their world has shifted, and sometimes when that happens you have to learn to live in the new one. Sometimes you have to accept the new reality, even if its horrible and cold and painful.

How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep...that have taken hold.

\- J.R.R. Tolkien

* * *

 

Stiles nudged his nose against the sheet he had wrapped himself in. The sun was bathing the room in yellow light, and he could feel it gently heating the air. He didn't move, his hands knotted in the blankets that were pulled over his ears. He was warm. Deliciously warm. Warm to his bones. He curled his toes in the thick socks he had tugged on last night.

Not moving. For once, everything was still and warm inside his skin and he was not moving. Not for school. Not for werewolves. Not for lacrosse. Not for-

A soft knock on his door interrupted his monologue on all the reasons he was never leaving his cocoon of warmth. He peered over the pile of blankets as his father poked his head around the door frame.

"Hey son. Scott's here, and we've got pancakes and coffee downstairs. Interested?"

Stiles blinked heavily. Pancakes. Coffee. Scott's grin. All very good reasons to leave the cocoon. He pushed his feet out from under the covers and slowly sat up. The air instantly seemed to pry cold fingers under his sweatshirt and he shivered. He retreated back under the thick fleece blanket and pulled it around his shoulders. He was taking his cocoon with him.

 

Scott looked up as Stiles thumped slowly down the stairs. He forced a grin across his face, his eyes flickering to the sheriff’s before settling on his friend. Stiles was wrapped in about eighteen sweatshirts with a thick fleece blanket fanning out behind him, his torso looking a bit like a very large burrito. His face was still white and thin, like a fragile, faded version of the guy who pelted lacrosse balls at his head for hours at a time. Digging his fingers into the back of the chair in front of him, Scott bounced a little on the balls of his feet. It had only been a few hours since he’d left the night before, but the urge to grip Stiles’ shoulders and search his eyes for any hint of deceit, to pat at his cheeks and hands and chest and look for broken bones or pain or blood - he was pretty sure that wasn’t going away anytime soon. He crossed the kitchen and met Stiles at the bottom of the stairs, wrapping his friend in a hug and pressing his nose into his neck. He was warm, and smelled of sleep and soap and a bit sweaty, but the musty, acrid scent the nogitsune had enveloped them all in was gone.

 

Stiles untangled one long skinny arm and patted at Scott’s back, relaxing with a resigned sigh. This was probably going to become a bit more frequent, these clutching hugs, seeing as Lydia was still flying into his arms every time he saw her and even Kira hovered closer than normal. And his dad, well, he couldn’t reach for his socks without his dad eyeing him critically, pressing a hand to his forehead and plying him with hot drinks and comfort foods.

Exempli gratia - pancakes. With peanut butter. And weirdly, strawberries. Stiles arranged himself in a chair, pulling his blanket regally around his shoulders and watching with bemused acceptance as a cup of steaming, sugary coffee appeared in front of him, followed by a pile of thick, buttery pancakes drenched in syrup and globs of peanut butter.

He felt smothered, just a bit. He smeared some peanut butter across the edge of the pancake and stuck a piece in his mouth. The syrup swirled on his tongue and exploded with sweet and salt and warmth in his mouth. It was perfect. He met his dad’s amused gaze and gave him a sticky grin. He really didn’t mind the smothering.

They ate in silence, his dad slowly working his way through his stack, Scott decimating twice as many as the both of them combined, and Stiles, attacking his plate eagerly, only to falter when his shrunken stomach protested. He poked at the remaining half on his plate wistfully. He really wanted to eat it. Apparently conducting secret middle of the night evil fox missions while running on fumes and never stopping to eat or drink or sleep was pretty bad for one's health. Also hard to recover from. Who knew.

Every bite suddenly seemed to crawl back up his throat. He dropped his fork and closed his eyes. He wanted to drift in the dark, find some warm corner to ignore this until it disappeared. Ignore the sadness that hung over Scott like a cloud, following him around. Nothing was ever going to be normal again. Nothing would be right. Scott was there, yes, shoveling pancakes into his mouth, but there would always be this awful shadow hovering just over his shoulder, staring at Stiles with accusatory eyes and reminding him of just how badly he’d destroyed everyone in his life. He was cold and aching, unable to remember ever feeling this awful. And there was a bed upstairs. Warm and soft and away from the memories and crushing weight of what his face had done, the things he’d said, the people he’d killed-

"Why are you cold, Stiles?" His eyes flew open and he jerked in a breath, the scent of syrup and coffee and baked pastry disappearing under the thick, musty, suffocating air, he couldn’t see, the kitchen was gone, Scott was gone, flies were crawling across his skin and filling his ears and there was nothing, nothing but cold and dark and the scratch of stiff, rotted gauze across his face, he was wrapped in it again, it was pulling at his hands and dragging him backwards into the ground and -

“Stiles!” He blinked and it was all back. He jumped and slammed his head into the wall behind him. Scott was in front of him, both of them standing somehow, his dad hovering just behind. Worry was etched in his face. He looked so old. Had Stiles made him old? Was that his fault too?

Someone was shaking his shoulders. He blinked and focused. Scott’s eyes were wide and scared and brown.

“Sc-scott,” his voice shook. He gasped and realized he’d not been breathing. Breathing was important. He didn’t have much in the way of spare brain cells anymore.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re okay, Stiles.” Scott’s hands were warm. He gently rubbed up and down Stiles’ arms and the warmth felt like the sun had looked in his room. Like he never wanted to leave. He lurched forward, grabbing at his friend’s shirt and pulling him around him like a oddly shaped t-shirt-clad blanket. Scott huffed a soft breath and wrapped his arms around Stiles again, rubbing at his back and letting the thin frame curl against him, taking his weight, as light as it was. The sheriff sighed and pushed a hand through his hair, dropping it to rest against his son’s head.

They stood there until Stiles stopped shaking. He pulled away, refusing to feel the blush of embarrassment. He didn’t care. He was going to fight, and if fighting meant flinging stupid little game pieces at a mummy or howling at each other or stabbing a sword into his own gut or breaking down and crying in his family’s arms like a particularly manly girl, he was going to do it. His mind skipped around, trying to settle on an emotion to process, but it all seemed to blur together and he sighed, weariness creeping back into his bones.

Scott yanked at the blanket that was trailed across the kitchen to the corner they’d ended up in, tugging it until he could pull it around Stiles and patting his cheek with a lopsided grin. “How ‘bout we make you into a burrito on the couch and play Mario Kart until you can’t help but weep at my prowess?”

Stiles snorted, lifting a hand to push at his eyes with a sleeve. “Prowess is a strong word, my friend.” Scott grinned again and knocked his head lightly against Stiles’ forehead, turning him bodily and pushing him toward the living room.

 

Mario Kart wiled away the hours as the late morning became a hazy afternoon. Stiles slowly drooped into the couch until he was mostly slumped in a nest of pillows, his head wedged against Scott’s side in a weirdly comfortable angle and his contributions to the game mostly involving muttered threats against the werewolf’s familial heritage. Scott insulted Stiles’ intelligence and manhood and tried unsuccessfully to keep from elbowing him in the head.

“Allison’s service is tomorrow.”

The words were quiet, though not unwelcome. Hours of distraction and peace and companionship had calmed the tangle of insanity in his brain enough that Stiles could blink without seeing flies and blackened teeth or feeling like he was being buried alive. He shifted, turning his face to press against Scott’s ribcage for a second.

“I know.”

They played for a few more minutes, the tinny music and blips and boops of the game filling the silence.

“They are going to…” Scott swallowed hard, lept over another obstacle. “Next to her mom, I guess.”

Stiles didn’t answer. His vision blurred, the absence of a memory that he felt he should have to carry burning behind his eyes. He hadn’t been there, hadn’t watched Allison die in Scott’s arms, and yet he was responsible. He was responsible, but Scott had to carry that pain, and he didn’t. It seemed like he should have been forced to watch the life drain from her eyes, not Scott. Like he should wake up yelling for her, not Scott.

“You going to be up for it, you think?”

Stiles pushed his shoulder across his eyes. No. No, he would never be up for it.

“I know you...I know you feel like…” Scott trailed off.

Stiles pressed pause and dropped the controller. He rolled to face the back of the couch, pulling his limbs in and burying himself under the blankets.

Please. Please let this all go away. Ignore the problem until it was too late to worry about it. Pretend nothing is wrong, and eventually, nothing will be. The emotions buzzed behind his eyes and he shoved his fingers into them, pressing until spots rose out of the dark and floated eerily at him.

He’d killed Allison. No matter how often Lydia reasoned it all out, or Scott shook him until he was forced to nod, or his dad hugged him and reassured him he would never not love him, he still knew. It was his fault. She was dead, Mr. Argent was alone, and Scott's heart would always be a little bit broken. Because of him.

He couldn’t stand there and watch them bury her. He could absolutely not do it. The silence grew and deepened and he tried to find the words to explain.

“I know, Stiles. I know.” Scott’s voice was quiet and resigned, answering the questions he hadn’t voiced out loud.

Stiles rolled his head backwards with a sigh. “I just - I don’t know how to...” His eyes met Scott’s, clear and honey-colored in the yellow light.

Stiles didn’t look away. Scott gazed down at him. It felt like he could read every thought, the naked honesty on his friend’s face a familiar sight.

“I don’t know either. But I need you to help me figure it out too.” He patted Stiles’ cheek and pushed his head lightly into the pillows. “I want you there.”

Stiles shifted until he was comfortable again, but he didn’t pick up the controller. He watched as Scott continued to roll under floating blocks and unsuccessfully avoid spinning wheels of death. “Get some sleep, Stiles. I’m right here, and I’m gonna take this opportunity to demolish every record you have.”

Stiles butted his head into Scott’s ribs. Scott elbowed him and winced as his hedgehog rolled into a wall.

 

The next day, Stiles stood next to Scott in a black suit, his tie lopsided and his face drawn and pale, but standing nonetheless. A warm spring rain dripped from the trees. He refused to give in to the thoughts scrambling around his mind, refused to show the urge to run as fast and far as he could from the look in Chris Argent’s eyes and the pity in Lydia’s, refused to let the burning in his eyes drip down his face. He tapped his fingers with his thumb, counting, ignoring the crawling sensation of gauze on the back of his neck and the buzz of flies at the back of his eyes. It was real. This was real, and it was awful, and he hated it, he was scared and sick and freezing, but it was real.

Scott bumped his shoulder and the buzzing faded. He counted to ten again and tipped his head back, the rain warm on his skin.

 

 


End file.
